


hum-mahgand*

by kathierif_fic



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathierif_fic/pseuds/kathierif_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin is at the forge when Bilbo finds him. And Bilbo has something to say to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hum-mahgand*

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evie007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evie007/gifts).



> So this is for Evie, who gave me a half-prompt and is an absolutely awesome host. Also because I love her a lot. (Spot the differences, Evie :D)  
> Takes place in the wonderful world of denial, where nobody dies at the end.  
> (*I’m almost certain that the title is rubbish, but it was supposed to translate to “shovel-talk”. Let's call it pseudo-neo-khuzdul?)

Dwalin is at one of the many forges deep within the mountain, skillfully bending mithril and gold to his will and idly thinking about friendship beads and courtship beads and how to disguise one for the other when he realizes he’s not alone anymore. He didn’t hear or see anyone enter, but when he looks up from the delicate bead he’s crafting, his eye catches Bilbo.

The little Hobbit is shifting from one big, hairy foot to the other, looking both nervous and oddly determined. It reminds Dwalin somehow of that night, in Bilbo’s home, when they met for the first time, before they even got to know each other, before Dwalin learned to respect Bilbo and his quiet strength.

Before the blasted adventure.

Before they came home.

Now that thought makes his lips twitch in slight amusement.

“Master Hobbit,” he greets and drops the tools onto his workbench. For Bilbo to find his way this deep into the mountain, there has to be a reason. Dwalin is well aware that Bilbo prefers to stay closer to the surface, closer to the sunlight and away from the deeper parts of Erebor, away from the memories of Smaug, covered in gold, making his way to the surface, towards Laketown.

“Mister Dwalin,” Bilbo replies politely. He is dressed in the fashion of the nobles of Erebor, wearing warm furs and a thick padded tunic in rich, decadent colors. His feet are bare, of course, and when he shifts, Dwalin catches sight of a silver glint under his collar. He is wearing the shirt of mithril that Thorin gifted him with, and his small fingers are clenched tight around the hilt of his sword; tight enough for his knuckles to whiten. 

Dwalin lifts his eyebrows at the sight, and his good mood evaporates quickly. Something must have given Bilbo a scare, he reckons, to make him find his way down here, to dress like this. The first thing Thorin did, once he regained consciousness and his senses, after that battle, was to officially claim Bilbo as a friend of the kingdom, to protect him from the claims of dwarven law which state that any thief daring to take from the royal line forfeits his life. By declaring Bilbo a friend and under his protection, Thorin has superseded that law, and yet, Dwalin has overheard several of Dain’s soldiers muttering behind the king’s back about how Bilbo should be punished for his theft of the Arkenstone.

Knowing he couldn’t do anything to aid Thorin’s healing, Dwalin did what he could then and took it upon himself to protect Bilbo and to fulfill his King’s wishes that way. A few well-chosen words in the right company and trust in Nori’s skills made sure that even the last and lowest of the Dwarves from the Iron Hills knew that Dwalin, son of Fundin, himself considers Bilbo Baggins, the Halfling, his friend and under his protection, and that any injury and slight the hobbit might suffer will fall back upon those inflicting them. The rest of Thorin’s company quickly and efficiently closed ranks around Bilbo as well, discreetly making sure no harm befell him.

His first instinct now is to take his well-sharpened axes and find out who made Bilbo so jumpy that he felt the need to wear armor and sword within the mountain, where he should be safe, but then, his sense wins and he squints at Bilbo.

“What can I do for you?” he asks gruffly. He glances at the sword, the edge of mithril glinting at Bilbo’s collar. “Did your sword break?”

“N-no.” Bilbo shakes his head determinedly. “Sting is fine.” His posture does not relax. It makes Dwalin suspicious, and he takes a quick step toward Bilbo.

“What happened?”

Bilbo’s eyes close, and he flinches, but he quickly brings himself back under control and forces his eyes open. His entire body is trembling, Dwalin notices, and his mood darkens even more at this blatant display of fear and discomfort.

Bilbo swallows, opens his mouth to answer, and closes it again to swallow once more, and Dwalin’s patience is running thinner than a mithril vein in the Iron Hills. He reaches for the axe he’s placed on the workbench, ready to storm out into the common halls and marketplaces of Erebor and to threaten enough people to find out what had happened to the Hobbit, when he feels small fingers close around his bare wrist, halting him with his arm stretched out toward his axe.

“Dwa-Dwalin.” Bilbo swallows loudly, his throat clicking. “I need to talk to you.”

Dwalin glances at his wrist, caught in Bilbo’s grip. He could easily break it, should he wish so; a Dwarf’s strength is bigger than a Hobbit’s, and Dwalin knows many ways of freeing himself, both those that leave his attacker incapacitated and in much pain and those that do not. 

“Talk, then,” he says, struggling to make his voice and demeanor less gruff. It is not the Hobbit who earned his ire, after all.

Bilbo exhales, inhales. His grip does not lessen. “I heard a rumor the other day,” he starts, his words coming slowly but growing hastier and quicker, until they tumble over each other in Bilbo’s hurry to say what he needs to say. “About Thorin.”

Dwalin’s brows rise at that. He is certain that he knows all the rumors there are about Thorin, and he makes certain to curb those that are wilder and potentially harming the King. It’s part of his duties to make certain the King is as safe as possible; after the dreadful business with the dragon sickness, Dwalin includes the King’s mental well-being into that.

“What rumor?” he asks, because there is always the possibility, small as it may be, of one slipping by him.

Bilbo’s eyes flicker to the side. He licks his lips and hesitates. “It was said that the King lies with...you know, I’m certain this is rubbish, no truth to it at all, but still, it is what is said, and if there is any truth with it, it’s certainly Thorin’s business, not anybody else’s, but still, being...you know, counting myself as a friend, to Thorin, that is…”

“Bilbo.” Amusement slithers through Dwalin like a serpent, silent and quick, and he welcomes it, having an inkling as to what the rumor Bilbo has heard might be. “Are you asking me if Thorin is lying with a male?”

Bilbo blushes, the skin across his cheeks and ears flushing bright with blood. “I’m not asking,” he protests weakly. “I’m simply telling you that there is such a rumor.”

Bilbo, Dwalin muses, is most likely the only member of Thorin’s Company who has not been aware of their relationship. Everybody else knew, or suspected, even before they set out to reclaim the mountain. It has not been of any importance, seeing as Thorin has two heirs already to continue Durin’s line, and Thorin has never shown any interest in producing offspring himself. Thorin has been thinking about telling Bilbo, Dwalin knows - there is little that concerns his King that he doesn’t know, up to his innermost and most secret desires and fears - and it looks as if Bilbo has accidentally uncovered this particular truth by himself, through rumors and whisperings.

“And do you believe this rumor to be true?” Dwalin asks him quietly.

Bilbo stills. “I talked to Fíli about it,” he admits after a long moment of silence. “And he told me.”

“He told you what?” Dwalin’s voice grows deeper without his conscious decision. It makes Bilbo almost flinch again, but this time, his eyes remain open.

“He told me that there is truth to these rumors, that Thorin is indeed sharing his bed with someone,” Bilbo says softly. “With you.”

Dwalin thinks for a split second. “What of it?” he finally challenges, half afraid that Bilbo is taking offense to their relationship, like so many would, and half wondering where this conversation is going.

Bilbo takes a deep breath and slowly releases it.

“I’m nothing more than just a simple Hobbit,” he states. His voice has stopped trembling and is firm, low, with a hint of steel behind it; the same steel that is visible in his eyes. “I know nothing of such things.” His free arm slices through the air in a vague gesture. “But, as I said, Thorin is a friend. And therefore, I see it as my responsibility to let you know this, Dwalin, son of Fundin.” His grip around Dwalin’s wrist, almost forgotten during their talk, tightens. “I may not be a warrior, like you, and I may not be skilled with weapons like you, but if you hurt Thorin...I am a burglar, and I know ways to make you suffer more than you could ever imagine. I will find you, and you will not know what is coming, or when, but rest assured that it will.”

Bilbo squeezes Dwalin’s wrist once more before abruptly releasing him and taking a hasty step backwards. He rubs his hands together and moves his shoulders, as if he is glad that this part of the conversation is over.

If Dwalin is honest, he is glad too. The Hobbit’s words contain much truth, and they have been uttered with absolute certainty and the fervor of a sacred oath.

Dwalin does not feel the urge to test the Hobbit’s resolve. He feels threatened, a humbling sensation caused by such an unlikely creature. 

“I will not hurt him,” he finds himself saying. “I would rather let harm befall myself and my family.” The words settle between them, heavy, an oath themselves, one that binds Dwalin more tightly than mithril shackles could.

Bilbo nods, accepting Dwalin’s words as truth, and smiles slightly.

“Having said that,” he adds, “I guess congratulations are in order? I was given to understand that Dwarves do not commit lightly to such an union.”

“We don’t,” Dwalin admits, shaking his head. “Thank you.” He tilts his head slightly to the side. “Now, was that all?”

“Yes.” Bilbo nods, the tension leaving his body steadily. “That was all.” He glances over his shoulder and shrugs. “I have said what I’ve come here to say.” He tilts his head down into a brief bow. “Good day.”

He turns to leave, and Dwalin calls after him. “Wait!”

Bilbo turns, a harmless Hobbit once more, his mail hidden by his collar once more, no indication to him that he just threatened Dwalin, son of Fundin, hero and survivor of the battles of Azanulbizar and Erebor. 

Thorin was right. He looks like a grocer, but Dwalin knows better. He knows that there is strength in this Hobbit, that he is a fierce warrior and fighter, and he feels honored to have fought and travelled by Bilbo’s side. To call him friend.

“Where are you going?” he asks, taking one involuntary step forward.

Bilbo gives him a quick, almost embarrassed smile. “Oh, I have an audience with His Majesty, the King Under The Mountain,” he says, ducking his head down. His ears blossom red once more. “After all, it’s not just Thorin who I call friend.”

And with these words, he leaves, his bare feet making no sounds on Erebor’s polished stone floors, and all Dwalin can do is stare after him, humbled and touched by Bilbo’s words and actions.

~~

Dwarves don’t bruise easily.

They almost don’t bruise at all, which is why many people do believe they don’t have the ability to do so.

Dwarven skin is tough, like old, battered leather. It scars, it can be inked, it bleeds, but it doesn’t bruise.

The next morning, when Dwalin wakes up wrapped around Thorin, his nose buried in thick, dark hair and his arm holding his King close, there’s a set of five perfect fingerprints on his wrist. They are small and set too close to belong to a sturdy Dwarven hand, like Thorin’s, and they are easily hidden by his knuckledusters once he puts them on.

Dwalin stares at them in the polished silver of the mirror and shakes his head. He will not make the mistake of underestimating the Hobbit ever again, he swears to himself, and judging by the bemused expression on Thorin’s face when he catches sight of them, neither will his King.

~end.


End file.
